


Wound Up

by Fire_Bear



Series: FrUK Spring Festival 2017 [9]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (I suppose), Anal Sex, Day 6, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, FrUKSpringFestival2k17, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Tragedy, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 09:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10964514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Bear/pseuds/Fire_Bear
Summary: Arthur's grandmother has died and left all of her music boxes to him - including the man-sized one that she never allowed him to wind. Now, without her stern protests, Arthur winds it only to find a doll which looks all too real.But is he really speaking to him or is Arthur imagining things?





	Wound Up

**Author's Note:**

> Didn’t think I’d finish this thing!
> 
> So this is really late but…. Well.
> 
> Going out with a bang, I suppose.
> 
> A Note: I was actually gonna make it a Clockpunk story but that didn’t happen, whoops.

Arthur had only just gotten home from the chemist when his mother arrived.

Upon hearing the knock at the door to his apartments, he hurriedly stashed the bags into his usual cupboard, inwardly cursing his luck that he had been interrupted. However, he didn't often get visitors so he was curious as to who it could be. Somewhere deep inside himself, he hoped that it was someone he was friends with as he hadn't seen any of them in months. He really should have known better.

Opening the door revealed his mother, resplendent in a violet dress in the current style. Which meant she had Gigot sleeves, making her look a little puffed up. Arthur hated the newest fashion in women – he thought they looked ridiculous. However, he _did_ prefer the bonnets women now wore and he thought the ringlets his mother must have painstakingly curled into her blonde hair suited her. At least, they did until she pressed her spectacles onto her face to look at him, her eyesight evidently getting worse in her old age. With the glasses, she looked like she was trying far too hard to cling to her youth. 

"Ah, Arthur, darling," his mother said in a tone that made it sound as if she hadn't been expecting him. "I was just passing and thought I should look in on you." She stepped forward and Arthur knew there was no point in trying to turn her away. He moved aside and watched as she and her Lady's Maid entered his home, the maid curtseying as she passed him.

"What a pleasant surprise," Arthur drawled, wishing he had at least managed to take some of his laudanum before she had arrived. He had the feeling he would be needing it before long.

"Yes," Mrs. Kirkland said, looking over the main room. It was in a mess, papers everywhere, his work spread over floor and table and chair. The maid was quick to move a mass of them from the chair his mother picked and Mrs. Kirkland sat, brushing a stray sheet from the arm. Arthur watched it float slowly to the wooden floor with a frown. "You really should find yourself a valet, at the very least," she commented.

"I would much rather not," Arthur answered, beginning to close the door.

"Oh, don't do that. The footmen are coming."

"Footmen?" asked Arthur, confused. Why would the footmen be coming up all the steps to his apartments? They should be with the carriage and its driver.

His questions were answered when two footmen, dressed in their fancy uniform, entered. They were both carrying boxes and Arthur realised his mother had come here with a purpose. He grimaced: the last time she had sought him out had been when she had tried to arrange a marriage between him and the daughter of a Duke. It had not ended well and he was sure his mother was still disappointed that he had no interest in the beautiful young woman.

"These are for you," his mother said as the footmen placed the boxes down and trooped out. "And I actually have something to tell you."

"Oh?" said Arthur, moving away from the door.

"Your grandmother has died."

Arthur thought of his mother's mother who was single-minded and hadn't rested until his father had agreed to take his mother as his wife. Mrs. Kirkland had married up and his grandmother had never let anyone forget that, least of all Arthur himself. Evidently, his mother owed a lot to his grandmother but he had never been fond of the old bat. However, his father's mother was a brilliant old dear, charitable and accepting of Arthur's need to write instead of going into the army or being social. He'd gotten along well with her before he took himself off to London for 'life experience'.

"Which one?" he asked, hoping it was his mother's mother.

"Your father's mother. Terrible business. Died of consumption. Your father is taking it hard, said we should have taken her in, even though she much preferred our second house and all her trinkets."

Gripping the back of his couch, Arthur took a deep breath through his nose. The news of someone so beloved being lost to him was making him ache for his laudanum, even the cocaine which sat beside it. He forced himself to be strong for the moment and looked around when the footmen returned with more boxes. Frowning at them, he turned back to his mother.

"When is the funeral?" he asked.

"That was weeks ago," his mother said dismissively, waving a hand rather imperiously.

"What?!" Arthur exclaimed, making the maid flinch. "Why didn't you  _tell_ me?!" 

"Perhaps the message was lost in transit."

Suddenly understanding, Arthur's eyes narrowed, fury coursing through him. It was obvious that his mother hadn't bothered to contact him, probably telling everyone else that she had. This was payback for the refusal of his refusal to marry that girl. That was why she had turned up on his doorstep – she now considered him 'forgiven'. Arthur wanted to slap her but the footmen returning stopped him, his fists clenching as he turned to find out why they were puffing so.

It turned out that the box they were carrying was huge. Thankfully, his door was wide enough for it to be carried through. They took it to the far corner and hefted it up onto its end to set it down. Once they had, they turned, bowed to both Arthur and his mother and left them to it, closing the door behind them.

"What are those?" he asked, trying to keep himself from sounding angry. It was unlikely that he succeeded.

His mother gave him a hard stare in admonishment for his tone. Arthur stared back, jaw clenched. Evidently, she saw that she was pushing her luck as she smiled thinly. "Your inheritance."

"Inheritance?"

"Your grandmother thought you'd like them."

Eyes widening, Arthur strode towards the closest box. Prying off the lid, he peered inside and saw the many different, elegant and beautiful little music boxes his grandmother always wound up for him to listen to. He had always loved listening to the sweet sounds, feeling at peace when the music swirled around him. The larger box, Arthur knew, was a unique one which his grandmother had never wound up for him. He had always been curious to see what was inside it and he felt a sudden itch to open it right away. Instead, he turned back to his mother.

"Thank you," he said, despite still wishing she would get out of his home.

"Perhaps you could sell them," his mother suggested, primly. She didn't bother to turn to address him.

"What?" Arthur stared at her in shock. Was she really so callous?

"Well, dear, you wanted to be the one to pay for these rooms, didn't you? True, you _have_ sold a couple of your little stories. But I do not think it will sustain you for much longer. Those will fetch a pretty sum, especially the big one. You must see the logic in this," she added, finally turning her head to raise her eyebrows at him.

Arthur's eyebrows lowered in response. "I see the heartlessness in it, yes," he said, icily.

His mother sighed. "Arthur, really. You are acting just like a petty child."

"And _you_ are acting above your station, madam."

Gasping, his mother stood in outrage. "You dare-?!"

"Please leave," Arthur said, stalking to the door. "I would like to mourn my beloved grandmother in peace." Almost wrenching the door from its hinges, he turned to her, gesturing sharply at the door.

For a moment, she looked as though she was going to protest. Then she sniffed haughtily, turned her nose up and strode from the room. Her maid hurried after her, pausing to curtsey and send him an apologetic look. Angry, he slammed the door shut and hurried to his cupboard to find his precious laudanum.

* * *

It was the middle of the night before Arthur came down from his high enough to feel the motivation to move. He had cried at some point, his face still damp and sticky and a little raw. There were several pages of _something_ on the table before him and he was lying on his side, pen dangling from his fingers. He dropped it as he pushed himself upright.

Though the laudanum had made him forget for a while, the pain of losing his grandmother and not being able to say goodbye hit him once more. It was an ache in his heart, so painful that he considered merely using more of his laudanum or switching to cocaine. In fact, he had stood and wandered the length of the couch before he stopped himself, almost kicking the box he had opened. He blinked down at it before crouching down to reach in and draw out one of the music boxes.

It was a beautiful mahogany one, decorated with a garden scene, flowers in full bloom and bees and butterflies flitting between them. He turned the key and opened it, setting it on the table to listen to the birdsong which poured from it. Then he began to pull more and more of them out, winding up each one and letting them sing. Each one was beautiful: some had pearl inlaid, others had golden filigree. There were even pure silver and gold ones, probably the ones which would fetch the largest amount of money.

Not that Arthur would part with any of them.

Every single box conjured up memories. His grandmother creating a lovely little robin in the corner of his favourite handkerchief. Playing in the garden as a child, throwing a ball between his brothers and the older woman who had obligingly kicked it back for them. Whispers of stories and dreams and the sharp fear of nightmares. Her loving smile and kind eyes. Seeing his father sing with her at the piano, something which had warmed his heart the day his brother had gotten married and his mother had become obsessed with weddings.

The jarring music continued and he danced around them, spinning and stepping. He realised that the laudanum was still in his system as he began to see the characters from the boxes around him. Bunnies hopped and fish swam away from his disturbance.

After a time, he fell onto his couch and into a deep slumber, the last box slowing to a stop.

* * *

When Arthur next awoke, the sun was almost at its peak and real birds were singing outside. He stumbled to the curtains and opened them, squinting at the street below. Then he took out some meat and bread, poured himself a glass of wine and had some breakfast. Once that was done, he took some laudanum and, suitably fortified, began closing all the music boxes.

Only four of them were closed when he remembered the large one in the corner. He made his way over, slipping a little on the paper still strewn on the floor. Once he was in front of it, he stared at the large key which was in the middle of the door. Looking around, he realised that the clockwork within obviously opened the door itself. Arthur put all his strength into turning the key, making sure to turn it more times than he would normally wind a music box. Then he stood back and watched, using the back of the couch to keep himself upright.

Slowly, the door swung open. There was a squeaking noise and the innards were thrust out. Arthur stared in shock at the huge cylinder which appeared, the 'keys' of a piano attached to it. Sitting on a stool before it was a man. Arthur was so startled, he shouted. But the man didn't do anything except turn his head and open his mouth. Then the cylinder moved and a beautiful song began to play.

It took him a little time to process what had happened before he moved forward, staring at the thing. Obviously, it was part of the music box, rather like a cuckoo clock or one of the clockwork travelling shows. The doll was of a handsome man, his blond hair tied back except for a few strands which hung down to frame his face. With its head's movement, the eyes had opened and Arthur could see that he had smouldering blue orbs within. Its lips looked soft and its hands were delicate. The ornate suit from a previous decade hugged the doll's form closely and Arthur's eyes were drawn down to its slim hips. All in all, the doll looked far too lifelike.

Shuddering, Arthur backed away from it only to slip on the paper and fall flat on his back. That seemed to be the last straw for his downstairs neighbour as, almost before he had recovered, the woman was hammering on his front door and he resigned himself to being yelled at. As he crossed the room to answer her, the song wound down and the doll and its piano retreated into its box. Arthur cast one last frown at it, wondering why his grandmother had never let him see it before.

* * *

A few days later, in the midst of writing a death scene of tragic proportions, Arthur remembered that his grandmother was dead. It followed hard on the heels of him thinking of his lonely life and knocked him for six. He hurriedly took a dose of laudanum and, when he was still near to tears, he took some more.

When his head settled, his eyes settled on all the closed music boxes that had been spread throughout his home, pages of stories littered between them. Barely registering his decision, he was soon winding them all up and letting their sweet, twining music envelope him. He even ventured to wind up the large one and watched the doll emerge, its music overpowering the others. That narrowed Arthur's attention to it alone and he watched it move, its movements more lifelike than the last time. For a moment, Arthur watched him.

Then he said, "What's your name?"

The man stopped and looked at him, blinking. "Francis," he finally said, the piano still playing, his fingers flying across the keys.

"Ah. I'm Arthur. Nice to meet you."

"It's a pleasure."

"I'm a writer," Arthur explained for lack of anything else to say, gesturing at the room.

"Are all writers so messy?" Francis asked, smirking a little.

"Mm. I don't have time to tidy up. There are so many ideas!"

"Such as?"

Arthur spent the rest of the day telling Francis about his many stories, winding him up when necessary.

* * *

Over the next few days or weeks or months (all his days started to blend into one another), Arthur spoke with Francis, reciting his writing and bouncing ideas off of him. He complained about people he knew and people he didn't. Relationship talk had Arthur sitting on Francis's lap as he hugged him tightly while he wept. With all the drugs he took habitually, his emotions were all over the place, especially when he hadn't taken a dose in a while.

During those times, he was also a little more lucid. Either that or his mind was sharper. Whatever the reason, it was then that he reminded himself that 'Francis' was a clockwork doll, that he didn't exist. It was probably all in his mind, starved for company as he was. But the company of his neighbours was repulsive and he could only stand Francis, even when he was arguing with it.

Slowly, he began to realise that he didn't want to be with anyone else. He wanted Francis, needed him to listen. His heart ached when he woke from a stupor and found him shut away. Every time he retreated into his box, Arthur would feel tears escape him. Always, always he wound the clockwork as much as he could so Francis would be in his life for longer.

He fell in love.

Upon realising that, Arthur began to fantasise about kissing those soft-looking lips. He dreamed of sitting in Francis's lap for hours instead of the scant minutes he could get. His cock took an interest, giving him images of them in bed together.

One day, Arthur was telling Francis about a story he had crafted, explaining what each little detail symbolised. Francis interrupted him. "Are you really going to write such detailed scenes?" he asked. "Won't people be... scandalised?"

"Why?" asked Arthur, drunkenly. He'd run out of laudanum and cocaine and had been drinking copious amounts of wine to make up for it.

"You're talking about writing intimate scenes between men and women."

Arthur snorted. "I don't see why they would be. Everyone does it. There's even people that are intimate with men." He paused, eyeing Francis, wondering if he would be offended.

"I know that," Francis said, simply. "But it isn't spoken about. Won't people be angry with you?"

Pouting a little, Arthur sidled up to Francis and slid into his lap. "You think I should destroy it."

"No," said Francis with a smile. "You should merely keep it to yourself."

"As I do you."

"Yes."

They sat in silence for a while, Arthur's gaze fastened on Francis's pretty lips. What would they taste like? What did a kiss feel like? Would he like it? Would _Francis_ like it? "May I kiss you?" he found himself saying.

Francis stared at him in shock. Then he nodded, practically thrumming with excitement. He looked ecstatic and hopeful. "Yes!" he breathed, his breath sending tingles throughout Arthur.

Grinning, Arthur leaned in. "I've never kissed anyone before," he thought to warn him, just before their lips met.

When they did, Arthur was blown away. His breath was stolen as they pressed together, softness pressed against his bitten lips. With his heart beating wildly in his chest, Arthur slid his arms around Francis's shoulders. Then Francis tilted his head and his tongue was slipping between Arthur's lips, the kiss deeper and more intense. He moaned into it, pushing himself closer. Francis smiled against him and Arthur felt elated.

Behind him, the piano music slowed. To Arthur, it felt as if time was coming to a stop. He tightened his grip on Francis. The last few notes sounded.

Without warning, Francis pulled away and shoved at Arthur. Startled, Arthur fell on his backside, sprawled at Francis's feet. Confused, he blinked up at Francis, mouth agape. Had he done something wrong? He couldn't figure out what had happened.

"I'm sorry!" Francis cried. "But you can't be here when-"

Before he could finish, the music box began to close, drawing Francis away from Arthur. He dazedly watched as Francis was forced to turn back to the piano, the doll's fingers finding the keys again, ready for the next song. The whole set up slid into the box and the doors shut with a definitive click. Arthur stared at it, still hurt from the rough treatment, unable to bring himself to wind it up again.

* * *

_I need to see him._

_Do I want to see him taken away again?_

_It's not a real person._

_I love him._

_No I don't, I can't._

_It's all in your head._

* * *

_"Isn't this more than the last time?"_

_"What of it?"_

_"Can you pay for it, Arthur? I know you-"_

_"I have enough. Just give me it – I need it."_

_"Right. ... One of your friends was looking for you the other day."_

_"Oh? Here?"_

_"Said you weren't answering the door..."_

_"Huh. Here. Give me it."_

_"Well..." A sigh. "Have a nice day, Arthur."_

* * *

One day, Arthur watched Francis play the piano. He sang as he played, his voice as beautiful as ever. Arthur had taken some laudanum and cocaine earlier and was sipping on an ale he had gotten from his local tavern. He'd taken to buying a barrel and bringing it home so he could be with Francis while he drank. Francis drank the wine.

Or Arthur drank that as well.

Sometimes he couldn't remember.

The tune changed, becoming light and airy. Francis turned his head to smile down at Arthur as he sang lovely words. It seemed to be a love song, pouring from Francis and into Arthur. He shuddered as the words entered him, smoothing out his pains and fears.

And his uncertainty.

Rising from his spot on the floor, he crossed over to Francis slipping sideways onto his lap. "Francis," he murmured. The man's smile widened and the tune became a little more intense and much more passionate. Arthur smiled back and kissed Francis, using a lot of tongue. They kissed like that for some time, the music becoming more and more sensual as time went on.

Soon, Arthur was hard, shifting restlessly.

Francis stopped the kiss for long enough to ask, a little breathlessly, "Would you like to be intimate with me?"

"Yes," Arthur replied.

After shifting around and removing clothes, Arthur ended up sitting on the stool, clinging to it as Francis slowly lowered himself onto him. Heat and tightness wrapped around his throbbing cock and he gasped with it. Once Francis was sitting in Arthur's lap, he pressed his forehead against Arthur's shoulder. They took deep breaths to steady themselves before Francis began to move, Arthur's hands on his hips.

Slowly, they built up speed. They had just gotten to a pace which made Arthur moan and shift restlessly on the seat when Francis grabbed his wrists and stopped, breathing heavily. "Do you... hear that?" he asked, looking over his shoulder towards the piano, looking concerned.

"Wha-?" said Arthur, trying to thrust into him. Listening over the sound of his heavy breaths and pounding heart, he realised that the music was slowing.

"Oh, no," breathed Francis – and he suddenly stood. "Quick!"

Before Arthur could react, he pulled Arthur up and pushed him away. Arthur frowned at him, reaching for him and grabbing hold of his arm, pulling him with him. Francis didn't protest, even as the box began to close. So Arthur pushed him over the back of his couch and pushed back in him. Then he began to fuck him, moving quick and going in deep, making sure to shift till Francis screamed.

It was a short time later that Arthur came.

When he finally came down from his orgasmic high, he realised he was collapsed over his couch. Dazed, his head hurting, he frowned at the sudden absence of Francis. Then he looked down at his body, taking in his cum covered hand wrapped around his own dick.

* * *

_Dearest Arthur,_

_......_

_... I worry about you._

_... I really think you should come home-_

_......_

_... Of course, if you need money, I still think those music boxes would-_

_All my love,  
                  Mother_

* * *

_"I haven't had a shipment today, Arthur. And you only came in yesterday!"_

_"I_ need _more!"_

_"Well, you'll have to go somewhere else?"_

_"Where?"_

_"There's one a few streets away, I think. But I really don't-"_

_A growl. "Which direction?"_

* * *

_I love him._

_But it hurts._

_Because he's not real._

* * *

Arthur couldn't take it any more. He was in so much pain and his medicine wouldn't dull it. Somewhere inside him, he knew that his pain would never be fixed with medicines or other remedies. It was deep inside him.

In his mind or heart.

But, right now, his heart was aching more and more. Francis's box was closed and he _ached_. For he was in love with Francis – but Francis only existed in the box, with the music. And it was a doll, not a human. He _couldn't_ love him.

The ache within his heart grew. It felt as if he was dying, slowly, suffering through slipping away from life to death. But how much longer would it take? The only thing which could take his mind off the ache was Francis and that knowledge made him cry out while the doll was stuck inside the box, made him scream and curse. When would this end?

Francis was nothing but a fiction, just like on the pages strewn across his apartments. He was seeing things as had happened with the other music boxes. Bunnies and butterflies and fairies would often surround him and he'd happily interact with them. However, he knew they weren't real. It was just his imagination – and that was what Francis was.

That acknowledgment made the pain deepen.

_If I'm going to die painfully_ , Arthur thought, _why don't I just make the pain stop?_

At first, he fought that idea. But, over time, as he fell more and more in love with a man who didn't exist, it became more and more tempting. Soon, he was sloppily sharpening his knives, readying himself only to get scared and turn to his medicine instead.

When his local chemist stopped selling to him in order to keep his supply for others, Arthur couldn't do that. Talking with Francis helped for a while but he was soon drowning. He couldn't keep it up. Was it truly worth the pain to be able to see him?

On the day he decided the pain was too much, his curtains were open and he could see that it was a sunny day, smiling on his conclusion. He dressed in his nicest clothes and set the equipment he needed on a chair he had placed to face Francis's box. Then he moved around his apartments, winding up all the boxes to let them play. Soothing music washed over him as he wound up the big one, stepping back to drop into the chair as it slowly opened.

"Arthur?" said Francis once he had turned his head to sing. He looked Arthur up and down and froze when he saw what was sitting in his lap. "What- What are you doing...?"

Ignoring Francis's shocked expression, Arthur said, "I love you." Then he picked up the knife and drew its sharp edge across his wrist. Pain blossomed there and he gasped. He tried to pass the knife to that hand but it slipped from his grasp. Looking down, he realised it was a far deeper cut than he had expected he would make. Blood was gushing out of it, dripping onto his lap. It pooled there, warming him even as his core began to chill.

Everything spun and Arthur had to close his eyes for a moment to stop it. Suddenly, he was on the floor, lying on his side. There, he gazed at the object of his affections and the cause of his grief, breath labouring.

Just before he lost the ability to see clearly, Arthur thought he saw a tear run down Francis's cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> You are free to choose whether it was all in Arthur’s head or whether Francis was a cursed prince/whatever who needed Arthur to say he loved him to break the curse.
> 
> Some things: [here](http://www.victorianweb.org/victorian/science/addiction/addiction2.html)’s some stuff about the drugs I mentioned in Victorian times (cause I see this as being early 1800s, about the 1830s).
> 
> [This](http://www.fashion-era.com/early_victorian_fashion.htm) is about the women’s clothes I mentioned.
> 
> I had some other sites I looked at, too, but that’s the ones I actually used something from.


End file.
